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Delhi to Dallas: the Ground Realities of Long-distance flying Shubhra Krishan Shubhra Krishan is a television and print journalists from India. she and her husband have been producing health series on Indian TV for a long, long time. Presently they are working on projects in the USA.

New Delhi. 9.30 p.m. I sit in the taxi, sandwiched between my parents. Coupled with the tension of the long journey ahead, the thought of leaving them behind is making my stomach churn. But yes, seven seas across, my husband is waiting too. I sit there, somewhere between happy and sad.

At the Indira Gandhi International Airport, there is no time for emotional goodbyes. Before I know it, I am racing for a trolley that is rudely whisked away by an elderly lady. I give chase to another one, but lose the race to a nimbler pair of feet. Five futile chases later, I get one. All this time, a policeman's harsh voice booms into the mike behind me: Car Number 2233, please move.car number 2233, please.Sigh.. It's check-in time. Well past, in fact.

Security check, followed by Immigration. The podgy officer behind the counter wants to know why I am going to America. He is asking all the routine questions, but there's something in his tone that's telling me he wants to act tough. After his 10th question, I pull out my Identity Card and he suddenly turns sickly sweet. "You're a journalist?" Yes, I respond, feeling glad to be a journalist for a change. "You go, Madam."
Well.

The flight from Delhi to London is smooth.

My next flight takes off in four hours, and this time I'm flying to Dallas. It's supposed to be a nine-hour flight, so I had better exercise my legs before I get in.

We're boarded on time, but cannot take off as scheduled. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're eleventh in queue for take off, says the pilot. "So we have about 35 more minutes to go". After 35 minutes, a further delay of 15 minutes is announced, and there's nothing to do but wait.

Finally, we're airborne. About half an hour into the flight, the pilot speaks again. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm afraid there is considerable turbulence over the Atlantic, so we will be forced to go slow, which means our journey would be an hour and a half longer than expected".

I don't believe this. 9.50 plus 1.30. Twelve whole hours in this metallic capsule? With all the turbulence around? I try not to think of the Titanic, but that haunting music keeps swimming into my head. The plane is thudding constantly, and the seat belt sign has been on forever. I keep my gaze fixed on it, willing it to be switched off. Finally, it disappears, and there's a collective sigh in the craft.

Eternitites later, it's time to land. But though the plane has begun its descent, there is no landing announcement. It seems to be circling. The weather is ominous. Layers of dark cloud cram the sky, sitting one under one under one right down to the ground. There's lightning, and the thuds feel like the shocks of a firing machine-gun.

Tension. The lady beside me has pulled out her Bible. At last, God responds. The pilot says those musical words: "Cabin crew please prepare for landing." Ten minutes later, the wheels touch down, and spontaneously, the passengers begin to clap. The pilot speaks again: "Ladies and gentlemen, we have been very fortunate today, for the visibility was zero, and we made it to the runway by a hair's breadth. Even so, it was very enjoyable flying you here. Thank you for flying with us."

The nightmare is over, I tell myself. I've never been more mistaken. The fun is just beginning.

Marching to Immigration, I am given a few suspicious glances, asked a few stern questions, and mercifully, given a two-month visa into the States. Customs is next. I'm carrying a few Indian spices, so I mention that in the "Food item" column. I'm immediately given an "a" (Agriculture) slip, and sent to a counter where they're opening everyone's bags. The lady officer wants to know if I'm carrying mangoes. I'm not, thankfully. Then she inquires if I have cumin (zeera) seeds. Yes I do. What kind? Whole or ground? Both. You'll have to open your bags, Ma'am.

She opens up my biggest suitcase, and rummages for the zeera. There, she pulls it out triumphantly. "What's wrong with cumin", I want to know, "when everything else is okay"?

It's got tiny black things in it. Have you noticed them? Not really. "Well, they can be dangerous. "Hey, Sam", she calls out, "We've got some cumin here." Sam looks pleased. They pocket all four of my packets, and I'm free to go.

I rush to the American Airlines counter, wheeling my baggage in two instalments down the small lift. A shock awaits me. The flight's been cancelled due to bad weather. Now what? There's already a long queue for re-routing. I need to call the gentleman who will be at Colorado Springs airport to receive me, in an hour. Then it hits me: I've done the most foolish thing I could have. I have checked in my telephone diary.

Then begins the frantic re-opening of the cases. The big suitcase just pops open, scattering my clothing all over the floor. I've never been more embarrassed in my life. Finally, in strict accordance with Murphy's sadistic law, I find the diary in the last piece of baggage. By then I am exhausted and terribly angry with myself. All you who read this: never, ever check in your phone diary or important papers.

I race to the phone booth and realise I don't have a pay-phone card. There seems to be nowhere I can buy it either. I run back to the far end of the counter, where a young, friendly-looking man is standing. I appeal to him to help me with a card. He gestures that he cannot hear or speak. He brings me a paper and pen, and after seeing my request, scribbles "I go bring", and disappears. He returns with two American Airlines courtesy phone cards, and I race back to the booth. Talking to my host is a big relief. At least someone knows I'm stuck here.

The lady at the counter wants to put me on the next flight to Colorado Springs, which takes off in twenty minutes. But I'm not sure I want to travel in this weather. I decide to ask for an overnight hotel stay and take a morning flight. She books me into a place called Wingate Inn, and I'm supposed to go to the floor below and wait for a couresty shuttle from the hotel to pick me up. It never comes. I wait there nearly half an hour, half-dead. Finally, I just walk up to the driver of the next shuttle and ask to be dropped to this Inn. He wants 30 dollars for the ride, unless I can get a transport voucher from the ticket counter. "They're supposed to give it to you," he tells me.

Which means it's back upstairs with the two trolleys, and in queue again. Another 45 minutes later, I'm (barely) standing at the counter, asking for the voucher. The lady wants to know why the hotel shuttle hasn't come, then sees my face and decides to give me the voucher. Back down again, and this time, I get on to the next shuttle. There's one more person in the vehicle. He is going to a hotel called Adam's Manor, which seems to be at the end of the earth. We drive for a good hour, hunting for his hotel. Finally, it's found. My co-passenger gets off, and I'm alone in this shuttle with this driver in the middle of the night (it's 11 p.m.) in an unknown city. Good luck to me. Another endless drive, and I have no clue where he is taking me. I feel sure I'm going to be kidnapped, molested and killed. A perfect end to a perfect day. No, this won't do. I thicken my voice for effect, and tell the man my husband is waiting for me at this Wingate Inn. Don't know if that's what works, but finally, I see the hotel signboard in the distance, and am sick with joy.

I check into the comfort of my room, fix myself a hot cup of coffee, and collapse in bed.

Next morning, the sun is shining again, and all's well with the world. I sit here in Colorado Springs, glad to be writing this, glad to be alive.

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